


all my lies are safe beside you now

by HappyPrincess



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Crying Harry, Desperate Harry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Name-Calling, Past Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, as always lmao, do NOT read if you don't want past h&l angst, past Zayn Malik/Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyPrincess/pseuds/HappyPrincess
Summary: They both know what it was like to love Louis Tomlinson fiercely, irrevocably, ghosts of it on their skin, even if the traces were etched in vastly different ways.





	all my lies are safe beside you now

**Author's Note:**

> uhmm yeah so, first time writing zarry and it ended up being about harry pining for louis so :/ i apologise. hope at least some ppl like this. 
> 
> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, mostly written at 4am, title from lola marsh's "only for a moment".

Harry doesn’t know why he shows up at Zayn’s flat in the middle of the night, other than wanting a familiar smell in his nose and a familiar cock in his mouth. Zayn doesn’t say much when he opens the door, only nods slowly and lets him inside. The hallway is kept tidy and welcoming, a few potted plans stretching towards the window at the end of it, moonlight throwing a square of silver onto the wooden floorboards. An open living space connects the kitchen and a corner of couches and cushions, coffee table littered with books, bowls and bunches of flowers, an arrangement of anemones in the centre of it. “Who are these for?” He asks, can’t help the curiosity from tumbling out. 

“I’m, like... preserving them, I guess. In epoxy.” Zayn doesn’t explain further, only drifts towards the kettle and plucks leaves from a shrub of mint. His movements are slow and sure, his face glowing from sleep and the shine of the single lamp above the counter, his expression neutral, seemingly unbothered by Harry’s helpless gaze. He forces himself not to scream and yell _ please _ _ please _ _ look at me listen to me hold me _ and sinks onto a couch, back stiff and hands skidding down his thighs. And, yeah, right. He was at a club a mere hour ago, his clothes still drenched in sweat, drying on his tingling skin. 

Embarrassment washes over him. There were plenty of people to go home with, plenty of people in this city to ring up for a nice night, but instead he got a cab on his own and ended up at the threshold of a person among those who hurt him most. It could’ve been worse, though. He could have given the airport as the destination, like the dozens of times before. Hours on a plane to sober up and regret his choices, only to land and drive to his own house. Zayn must know, can probably see it in his expression, but apparently chooses to ignore the hurt written on Harry’s face. The poise in his movements is infuriating, unfair and unsettling. It wasn’t like this, the last time. They clawed at each other, silent and desperate in that little habit of theirs, intent to leave marks when all that space was already occupied, owned and claimed. Harry might be in pain, but it’s a pain they share. They both know what it was like to love Louis Tomlinson fiercely, irrevocably, ghosts of it on their skin, even if the traces were etched in vastly different ways. 

He doesn’t look into Zayn’s eyes, stares at his hands that carry two hour-glass shaped cups, steam wafting up between his fingers as he sets them down on the table. The ring he’s wearing, lapis lazuli engraved in gold, glints in the dim light and slides down to his knuckles when he leans back into the cushions. “You wanna take a shower?” 

It’s not a hint towards Harry’s sweaty and dishevelled state, he’s asking if Harry wants to be fucked tonight, and he _ does _ _ , _ h is mind stops for it, his insides tightening with the need for a cock inside of him. But more than that he wants to get rid of the vice around his heart, the force that makes it feel like it’s simultaneously bursting and wilting away. He turns his body, shoves his face into the back of the couch and pretends he isn’t keeping himself from nuzzlin g into Zayn’s s houlder . “I miss -…" _ You. Him. Us. _ He inhales the smell of expensive leather, rubs his nose into it. It isn’t a foreign smell, God knows he’s used to lavish upholstery and the soft drag against his face, but it isn’t something he associates with Zayn, Zayn who used to smell of smoke and paint and mornings in bed. 

With blurry vision, he watches Zayn take a sip of the steaming tea, lips slightly pursed as he nips on the rim of the glass. They’re a deep red in the dark, almost purple as the hot liquid seems to burn them, twitching when Zayn curses softly. When he puts the glass on the table and leans back again, they’re closer together, close enough that Harry can discern the blown pupils in his dark eyes. “I got a thing tomorrow noon, but other than that I’m free for the next days. If you want to stay, you... you can.” 

Harry’s back hurts. It always hurts to some extent, depending on how little he works out and if he’s sleeping on someone else's mattress – but ever since he checked his phone in the club and saw the texts, the drunken pleas, his spine aches for a persistent touch, for someone to spread him out and re-shape him. He finds himself nodding, gratitude unfurling in his chest, fingers inching closer to Zayn’s thigh, hooking into the cotton of his joggers. “Thank you,” he whispers, voice squeezing past the rough clutch of his throat. 

Suddenly, he realises there’s hitches in his breathing and tears dripping down his temple, running into the crevices of the couch, soaking into his skin. It shouldn’t embarrass him anymore, crying in front of Zayn, not when they’ve seen each other broken and ripped apart, but it does, it makes him feel pathetic and whiny and helpless and everything they accused each other of, motionless and frozen. He must appear like a heap of failures, always wanting something he can’t have, always feeling too much, always demanding attention when he can’t give back. 

Zayn doesn’t move to pull him in but when Harry finally, finally allows himself to sink against his side, his arm settles atop his shoulders. Here, with his ears on top of a beating heart, he finds the familiarity he’s been looking for, the fragile slenderness of Zayn’s chest, the jut of his collarbones, the sharp edge of his jawline atop his head, the long fingers curling around his arm. And the smell of him. Pure, uncovered, intense from the sleep Harry must have torn him from. He starts trembling from it, greedily inhaling and pulling his knee up so it settles atop Zayn’s leg, almost sinking into his lap entirely, stifling the quiver of his lips by mouthing along Zayn’s collar. It gets wet quickly and he sucks at the fabric, groaning when it gives him something else to focus on beside the hissed words at the back of his mind, telling him to grow up already, to get over it, to forget and forgive. 

When he shifts and properly glides on top of Zayn’s thigh, his own trousers catch on the hairs leading down his bellybutton, zip digging into his abdomen. He groans and comes up for air, heart plummeting when their eyes meet. Both of them blink slowly, shadows cloaking them, no light or sound intruding. In a surreal, pseudo sensation he expects Louis’ hand to grip the back of his neck, can almost feel short nails scratching at his scalp, hears a mocking voice to show them a good time, to prove that he’s good, that he isn’t just a useless mess. “Let me,” he says hoarsely, scrambling at the knot of Zayn’s joggers, blinking away the tears. “I wanna-” 

Zayn goes to say something, brows drawing together but before he can stop him or kick him out, Harry rushes to get onto the floor, in between Zayn’s spread legs, kneeling good and proper, looking up pleadingly, preciously, prettily like he knows he can. “C’mon,” he says, damp from the tears but forceful. “Fuck my mouth.” 

He tugs at the waistline of Zayn’s pants where they’re exposed under the bunched hem of his shirt, tries to get them down. He swallows back another wave of sobs when he doesn’t succeed, stills his shaking wrists and clenches his teeth, determined to collect himself and be nothing but a perfect hole for Zayn to fuck into. But instead of shucking his pants and yanking him in by the top of his curls, guiding his cock into Harry’s mouth, Zayn gently lifts his chin and levels him with hooded eyes. “Why aren’t you with him?” 

He doesn’t ask why Harry is here, doesn’t ask why he isn’t home, asks about Louis without mentioning his name like the empty space between them that he is. It’s the first time tonight he’s really looking at Harry, really looking at him, and he’s only doing so because he pities him, knows where Harry wants to be right now, knows whose hands he is truly longing for. It shouldn’t make him harden up. “Please,” he whispers, can’t muster up anything else. “Please, come on.” 

When both the joggers and briefs are bunched up around Zayn’s ankles, Harry rests his forehead on the jut of his hipbone and breathes him in, the smell of cock as reassuring as it is throwing him off balance. He is pressed up against the ink he put there himself, his own equivalent covered up, hidden from the world. Shame sizzles in the bottom of his stomach, shame and regret, but right now he refuses to give into them, adamant to bring an end to his display of weakness, so he straightens up and licks over the words, into the black curls dusted all over Zayn’s crotch, along the thin skin of his balls. He makes sure to get everything wet and sticky, how he remembers Zayn loving it, his own palms damp when he brings them up to steady himself. The quiet mumbling above him, sighed and satisfied, makes him close his eyes in bliss. 

Harry’s lips recognise the shape and taste of Zayn’s cock as soon as he wraps them around the tip, saliva gathering under his tongue as he swirls it over the slit. He feels dizzy from want, from the tang of pre-come, from the fingers skidding around the back of his head and tangling in his hair. “Kitten,” Zayn murmurs and Harry whines, the word seeping through his skin and settling deep in his chest. He dips deeper, relaxes his throat to get as low as he can, the corners of his lips stretched and stinging, cheeks hollowed. His own dick throbs, but he keeps it trapped in his trousers, curls his hands around Zayn’s base and the curve of his hip. _Good boy_, he hears and they’re Louis’ words. On a particularly wet glide, he stays down as long as he can, memories fizzling into nothingness, everything falling away except the need for breath and the hot weight of a cock in him. 

When there’s spots dancing in front of his closed lids, he pulls off with a cough, gasping, writhing on his knees, his hips snapping up and seeking friction against his pants. 

“Kitten,” Zayn says again and tilts his head back carefully, his gaze unflinching. “You shouldn’t -… you’re gonna hurt yourself.” 

_ “ _ _ Yes _ _ ” _ , Harry breathes , delirious, _ please, hurt me, hold me, keep me close _. He parts his lips, licks them, tasting salt and acidity, tries to blink innocently, pleasingly, aware of the moonlight hitting his face. A cry forms in his chest when Zayn looks away, not quite annoyed, not quite disappointed but definitely not pleased. His prick is just mere inches away from Harry’s tongue, leaking, but he doesn’t let him have it, keeps his grip in his curls unrelenting. “You’re just here because you can’t have him.” 

Harry sobs, turning slack, trembling all over. “Please, no, want you-” 

“You never _ wanted _ me.” 

He is on the brink of panic, ribcage squeezed tight, lungs screaming for air, thoughts and memories spiralling and he can’t have this, can’t endure this, can’t go through this again and again, especially not when he’s on his knees, can’t have someone rejecting him again. “You can’t -... I can’t, please, just – just use me, just -” 

That’s when he sees the tears glistening in Zayn’s eyes, the pain in them. He almost gives into the panic right there, tempted to flee into the pure state of helplessness, anything to escape the responsibility to stand up and give back, to _care_. But more than that he wants to be good, unobtrusive, nothing but a vessel to give pleasure. So he schools his expression into blank obedience, slows his breathing and strokes down Zayn’s quadriceps. “I want you, Zayn. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” 

Zayn doesn’t look like he believes him. But he smiles, that little smile of his, that’s both self-deprecating and teasing, lips plump and red. “You’d say anything to get cock, don’t you? Such a fucking slut.” 

Harry moans, drops a hand to the front of his trousers, nods hastily. This is level ground again, this is what they do, what they say, ripped apart by snarled insults instead of hurtful confessions, fingers forceful and unrelenting. He dips forward again, tonguing at the bead of pre-come sliding down the tip of Zayn’s cock, and this time he isn’t cut short, this time he can fill himself up again, letting go of his own dick and putting his hands behind his back, exhaling deliberately. It’s noticed with a moaned laugh. “Alright, if you want it that badly.” 

Zayn strokes his cock, slowly and surely, sounds of I slick from all the spit, and taps it on Harry’s slick bottom lip, smirking cruelly when Harry whines for it, keeping him still with the grip in his curls. “Open up, kitten.” 

Harry’s front is pressed up against the couch, his shins smart, his jaw aches, but he tucks his lips over his teeth and waits. By now, his heart shouldn’t skip a beat whenever there’s a dick sliding over his tongue, but it stumbles and kicks against his ribs, its echo strong in every corner of his body, veins thrumming with desire. Zayn begins fucking up into Harry’s mouth, careful and considerate, never to deep, giving him enough time to breathe in between thrusts, thumbing away the tears escaping Harry’s closed eyes. It’s not perfect, not when he wants to be bruised and claimed, not when he wants to wake up with a sore throat, but it’s better than nothing, filling him in a way that makes him forget the emptiness in his chest. 

Zayn is quiet, as usual, no more dirty words, no telling moans, only the tremble of his thighs and the tight muscles of his stomach giving him away, lips slack like they always get when he’s close. It spurs Harry on, makes him open his mouth wider, tonguing at the underside of Zayn’s cock as much as he can with the quickening pace, makes it as good as possible until he can’t anymore, lets himself be used and ruined, trying to breathe through his nose, drooling, crying silently. He cries harder when Zayn’s grip loosens, all of him loosens, and he comes, spilling down Harry’s throat, warm and bitter. “Thank you,” he gasps, swallowing desperately, revelling in the fact that he’s done _good_, that he was a good little slut for Zayn to fill up, so needy there’s sweat dripping down his hairline and his chest. 

There is a moment when he’s kneeling and Zayn is slumped on the couch, both breathing hard, looking at each other with glazed eyes, that he fears he’s going to get kicked out now, that he wasn’t enough, that he should’ve knocked on someone else’s door. But Zayn rubs a palm over his face and then reaches for him, pulling him up by the armpits, doesn’t even comment on the soaked silk. Harry wobbles to stand, hands still clasped behind his back as he lets Zayn unbutton his blouse and trousers, lower his pants, cock twitching when the air hits it. “Come here, kitten,” Zayn says softly and pulls him onto his lap, enveloping him in a hug. Adjacent to Harry’s overheated skin, he’s cool and smooth, barely sweating. 

Harry nuzzles into the harsh texture of his scruff, smears his tears onto his cheek. “Was I good?” 

Zayn doesn’t answer and it shocks Harry to his core, feels like he’s kept hanging above the edge of a cliff. _Louis would’ve praised him__._ He suppresses a whimper by biting his lip, frowns down at his cock that curves up to his stomach, desperate flush obvious even in the darkness of the room. It’s why he sees where the thumb stroking over his abdomen is placed, right above one of the laurels, above the words covered by the ferns. His face, already blushing, grows hotter, embarrassment back and licking down his spine. “I’m -,” he starts, shivering. “It wasn’t-” _because of you. Because of him__._ But there’s no sense in lying. 

Zayn shakes his head, aligns their temples. “You’re fucking useless.” 

And he’s not talking about Harry’s body, but it gets him off either way, makes him whine and his balls draw up, frantic to prove him wrong, to prove him right, to come. His arms flail as he shuffles closer and he regains balance by draping them around Zayn’s neck, interlocking them. He’s hunched over, waiting for permission and he gets it in the form of a kiss to his cheekbone. He chokes on a gasp and shoves his cock into Zayn’s stomach, friction too sparse to feel good and exactly right because of that, it’s what he deserves, what he needs. 

His lips tingle, sore from cock, stinging from come, damp from spit and Zayn’s breath on them, parting when he realises what little it would take them to join their mouths. They’ve never kissed, not really and certainly not when they’re alone. His movements stutter, his heart plummeting. He stares, mind running wild, images attacking him, until Zayn blinks up and raises a brow in question. “Not enough for you?” 

Harry flinches and shakes his head, clamps his thighs around Zayn’s and scratches down his clothed chest, keeping them apart and close at once. 

Zayn hums and brushes a curl from Harry’s forehead. “Then what are you waiting for. You either get yourself off like this or you can jack off in the bathroom, whatever.” For all his gentleness, he really does seem like he doesn’t care, and he probably knows how that affects Harry, how it makes him want to beg and plead. He does exactly that, whines and collapses forward again, nosing into Zayn’s hair, inhaling the product, whining again when he doesn’t recognise it. He resumes his grinding, muscles taut, fingers cramped in Zayn’s shirt, cock dripping. “Please, please, please,” he cries softly, feeling tears in the corners of his eyes again, doesn’t know if it’s from the lack of stimulation or the lack of another person in the room, all he knows is that he needs to reach the promise of pleasure tugging in his tummy. 

“Shh, kitten, it’s alright,” Zayn murmurs, so softly, so soft all over, his lips soft on Harry’s cheek, his fingers soft at his neck, his palm soft on his skin. Harry moans and lets himself be held while he fucks against him, his cock pushing into Zayn’s treasure trail, rough pressure deliciously painful on his sensitive tip, making him dizzy with it, bottom lip dropping in a silent sob, catching on Zayn’s beard, their mouths nearly touching. 

He listens to his own sounds and the memory of Louis’ encouragements, eyes squeezed shut as he gets off on Zayn’s body, his cock hard and pulsing, his hands trapped between their chests and he likes it that way, likes being helpless as he is made to push his hips forward, skin slick from sweat. _That’s it, such a slut for it,_ he hears reverberating in his mind, and he thinks of Louis’ eyes and his touch and the taste of his spit, and then he turns his head, searching blindly, stops breathing and kisses the one person Louis never wanted him to kiss. 

Zayn’s lips are silky and warm, so much fuller than Louis’, so much more gentle and pliant, and Harry thinks _yeah_ and _more_ and _am I good now?_ He comes untouched when he realises Zayn isn’t pulling away, is kissing him back, wants him. His cock lurches, dripping between them, and it’s fantastic, it’s everything, encompassing him wholly, seconds of overwhelming bliss, the world crumbling and leaving him in a cloud of euphoria. His hips jerk when Zayn wraps a hand around his dick and forces another spurt of come from him, humming contently, the prod of his tongue tender, swallowing Harry’s whimpers. He tastes like mint, like the tea that’s cooling on the coffee table, like something striking and new and exhilarating. 

The world comes back in pieces. First, there’s the air sending a shiver down Harry’s spine. Then, there’s the inauspicious thump of a headache in his temples. His throat feels dry and empty, no longer pleasantly used, his limbs are heavy, weighing him down, lashes drooping, breath slowing. Only his heart is keeping up its race. 

Their lips slide together one last time, then they’re both leaning back and looking at each other. Zayn sighs and hides his eyes behind his fingers, digs them into his face. “This was the last time, wasn’t it.” 

“No,” Harry says immediately, pulling at his wrists. “No.” 

“Kitten,” Zayn whispers and kisses Harry’s knuckles. “You’re crying again, maybe you should -. I dunno. Call-” 

“No,” Harry repeats, aligning their cheeks, rubbing himself on Zayn’s scruff and nuzzling his ear. “This wasn’t the last time.” 

He refuses to believe that, refuses to lose him again, refuses to acknowledge the nagging feeling in his chest, doesn’t think of blue eyes and makes himself look into Zayn’s, into the dark brown of them, even darker in the night. He’s going to sleep over for the next days and he’s going to wake him up with his lips pressed to his mouth and he’s going to see his eyes in the rising sun, spending the morning in bed, like they’ve done hundreds of times before, only that tomorrow, there won’t be a third person between them. His heart calms down. He’s good. Zayn will see. Pain isn’t the only experience they share. 

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments and kudos, i'd greatly appreciate it. rebloggable [tumblr post here](https://pattern-pals.tumblr.com/post/188634495670/all-my-lies-are-safe-beside-you-now-by)  
xx


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